Harry came to one knee, panting. Recovering the flash light, Shayne pointed it at his own face. Then he turned it on Theo.

“You’re among friends.”

Harry said heavily, “Where the hell are we?”

“On the Normandy Shores golf course. I’d say about the eighth green. Did you have fire insurance on your Cadillac?”

Theo said quietly, “We have to get him to a doctor.”

“Hell with that,” Harry rumbled. “I need a drink. Been trying to climb that damn wall. Bastards over there wouldn’t listen to me.”

He came to his feet. Theo caught him, both arms around his chest, as he began to topple.

“I’m OK,” he said.

“Oh, yes, you’re fine.”

“How do you want to do it, Harry?” Shayne asked. “You can sit down and we’ll cover you up, and I’ll go back and call an ambulance. But if you don’t want to talk to the cops or sign a complaint right away, we’ll give you a nice bumpy ride out in a golf cart.”

“Mr. Shayne, be serious,” Theo said. “Look at him.”

Harry pulled away. “Not the first time in my life-”

Shayne caught him as he pitched forward. “All right, we’ll take the golf cart. You’ve put on some weight.”

“Hell I have,” Harry mumbled. “Maybe a couple of pounds.”

Shayne turned him so he could look at the flashlight. “How many lights do you see?”

Harry stared at the flashlight, then waved in disgust. “How can I count them when they keep moving around?”

Shayne laughed. “All you need is a couple of weeks in bed and you’ll be out here swinging a golf club.”

He supported the gambler to the cart and helped him up. Harry slumped forward, his head on his folded arms. Theo stood on the ledge behind him, to hold him in.

“How much did you lose, Harry?” Shayne asked before starting the motor.

For a moment he didn’t think Harry had heard him.